


A Rose by Any Other Name

by lolo313



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dildos, M/M, Underwear Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8402308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: Stiles Stilinski had planned everything. But when an unexpected guest interrupts his gentleman time, Stiles wonders if perhaps things are better left to chance.





	

 

Stiles Stilinski had planned _everything_. His father, the Sheriff, had a budget meeting right after work, and wouldn’t get home, like every month, till well after nine. Scott had plans with Allison, and if experience was anything to judge by, Stile wouldn’t be hearing the bathetic details till sometime around ten. Lacrosse practice had been cancelled, and Stiles’ homework…well, that could wait.

As soon as he got home from school, Stiles locked the front door and dropped his bag at the kitchen table. He toed his shoes off before bounding up the stairs. He also locked his bedroom door, for good measure. He shuttered the windows and lowered the blinds. He clicked on the stereo to an innocuous background. With haste and no thought for decorum Stiles shed his clothes, ripping his shirt off over his head and nearly stumbling out of his jeans. Kneeling inside his closet, he dug through a mountain of thoughtfully assembled chaos to find a shoebox, tucked away in a back corner, for all outward appearances entirely unexceptional and ordinary.

Stiles clutched the cardboard to his chest, tender as a child would cling to a beloved stuffed animal. Moving to sit on the edge of his bed, he lifted the lid and beheld his assembled treasures. He picked out the bottle of lube, nearly empty, and laid it down on the comforter, alongside which he place a modest dildo. But beneath these hid his most cherished possession. Already his heart raced at the thought as he lifted the jockstrap out of the box and brought it up to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply, breathing in the heavy scent of musk that still—impossibly—clung to them weeks later.

_Derek_.

It’d been nearly three—four?—weeks ago, at Derek’s derelict loft. Some supernatural horror, Stiles could no longer keep them straight, had recently descended on Beacon Hills, prompting Scott _et al_ to come to the town’s rescue yet again. While Stiles felt he’d been instrumental in their victory, as always, most of the heavy lifting (and hitting) had fallen to the collective werewolves, whereas his contribution had consisted largely of logistics and investigation conducted in their hastily constructed command center at Derek’s.

Stiles had been at it for hours—it must have been well after two in the morning—when he finally got the text from Scott. _We beat it. We won_. Stiles had let out a triumphant ‘whoop whoop,’ only to remember he was alone and there was no one there to celebrate with him. There was the usual clean up to take care of, Scott informed him, along with the evidence to destroy or tamper with, and they would most likely be at it the rest of the night. He told Stiles he could head home, after thanking him once again for his help.

And head home was exactly what Stiles had planned to do, honest. But as he tidied up the table on which he’d worked, one of his pencils had dropped to the floor and rolled underneath Derek’s bed. Stiles had intended to retrieve it and be on his way, but the state of the underside of Derek’s bed floored him. Well, he was already on the floor, but you know what I meant.

How could an adult _be_ so messy? Discarded papers, misplaced storage, dirty laundry—was that a dinner plate? Stiles had been overcome with disgust and intense curiosity, and as usual, curiosity had won out. He began to pick his way through the debris—torn notices to evict, a crumpled, crayon drawing signed Cora, age 7, not one, but _two_ dinner plates—but he stopped dead when his fingers curled around a loose bit of fabric. At first Stiles thought it must be some scrap of shirt, torn in one of their countless battles, but as he pulled it out and sat up the truth dawned on him.

Stiles wouldn’t call himself an obsessive—he preferred the term _thorough_. As such, he’d spent more than the occasional evening wondering what exactly Derek had on under his impossibly tight jeans. Arguments could be made for boxers, briefs, Stiles had even gone so far as to wonder once if perhaps Derek favored thongs, but never, in his wildest imaginings, had Stiles thought he’d get confirmation that Derek wore jockstraps. But here was the proof, clutched in his sweaty palm. Now, Stiles thought of himself as a moral person. While not overly religious, his father had done his best to instill in him a sense of right and wrong, and barring extreme circumstances, stealing was decidedly on the side of wrong. However, given the number of times Stiles had rubbed himself raw thinking of Derek, of what he felt like and tasted like and smelled like, he figured that this counted as an extreme circumstance. So with nary a backwards thought, he’d stuffed his prize into his back pocket, collected his things, and went home.

Since that night, not a day had gone by that Stiles hadn’t thought about what he had hidden in his closet. His father wasn’t a snoop, but he was a Sheriff; Stiles would bet his father would notice the deviation in Stiles’ wardrobe if he happened upon a jockstrap lying on the floor, which would lead to many a question Stiles would rather avoid if possible. So he’d tucked it away with a few other purchases made surreptitiously in a seedy adult store two towns over. While the thought of what he had hidden drove him mad with desire—how many times had Coach told him to _get his head in the game_ when he’d caught him mid-wet-daydream?—Stiles felt such an experience should be as perfect as possible. That, and he doubted his ability to keep quiet once he really got into things, and the last thing he needed was his dad knocking on his door to ask if he were alright. So Stiles had bided his time, waiting for the perfect moment when he wouldn’t be rushed or interrupted. And lo, it had finally arrived.

Stiles inhaled deeply, the jockstrap pressed against his face, smothering him. Already his cock strained against the confines of his underwear, which he hastily shimmied out of. How could Derek, could _anyone_ , smell so damned delicious? His heady scent made Stiles head swim and his cock throb. His skin felt flush and burning beneath his fingers’ attention. While his one hand stroked, the other danced across his chest, flicking and swiping across his pert nipples, which pebbled beneath his touch.

Before long the head of his cock glistened with precum, shiny and wet. Mustering up his strength, Stiles slowed his hand, letting the jockstrap slip off his face as he gulped in mouthfuls of air.

“Easy, Stiles. Make it last.” Propping himself up on his elbows, Stiles uncapped the bottle of lube and squeezed a generous helping into his palm. He massaged the goo over the head and shaft of the dildo, taking care not to leave any dry patches. Then he hitched his legs into the air, his knees bent against his chest, as he pressed the head of the dildo against his hole. “Deep breaths, Stiles, deep breaths.” Despite his mantra, Stiles wasn’t prepared for the exquisite bite as his body stretched to accommodate the silicon toy slipping inside him. Through gritted teeth his breath hissed as Stile slowly pushed the dildo farther inside, till it sat, snug, fully sheathed in his body.

Stiles took a moment. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, willing the muscles of his body to relax. Gradually, the burning stretch turned to a dull, promising pleasure. As he fisted the jockstrap, Stiles imagined Derek stripping them off, imagined his cock, plump and heavy, dangling before his mouth. Stiles caught the underwear between his teeth, let it drape across his nose and mouth, as his hands travelled back down his body to capture his cock and seize the base of the dildo. With easy, experimental movements, Stiles began to move, pumping his cock and ass in rhythm. Soon, his wrist ached from the awkward angle, but he did not stop, could not stop, as the dildo slid in and out and in and out, his hand furiously flying up and down his cock.

Stiles writhed and arched, his body flush with pleasure. _God_ , what he wouldn’t do for more hands, to pinch and tease and cup and pull. But in his mind it was Derek, Derek who was fucking him, Derek’s hand on his cock, Derek’s body, full and sweaty and real, looming over him, not some lingering, imagined scent.

Had Stiles not been so wholly subsumed in his ministrations, had his mind not been so fully blinded by the white cotton haze of bliss, he would have heard the car pull into the driveway, would have heard the engine cut off and the car door slam shut. Even if, somehow, he had missed these, he would have heard the perfunctory rap of knuckles on the front door followed by a key turning in a lock, the open and shut of the selfsame door. And certainly, if nothing else, how could Stiles not notice the familiar creak of the stairs, the echo of footsteps in the hallway, and the quick rattle of the door handle as the lock, which had never properly worked since that one satyr attack, popped open? And yet Stiles heard none of these things, so it was with great surprise that, upon opening his eyes, he saw, standing at the foot of his bed, arms crossed across his sculpted chest, smug grin dripping off his face, Derek staring down at him with a look of supreme amusement.

“Der—whatthefuckareyou—it’snotwhatitlookslike I _swear_!” Stiles did his best to scramble backwards, but given his condition, he managed only to flail a bit, his dick wagging back and forth against his thighs.

“What it looks like,” Derek said, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands on his hips, “is the jockstrap that’s been missing for nearly a month.”

In his haste, Stiles had released his hold on Derek’s jockstrap, which had slipped from his mouth and landed on his cock, from which it now dangled like a disgraced flag at full salute. Stiles grabbed at it, knocking his thighs together to hide his erection, though this managed only to push his ass out, further exposing his dildo-stuffed hole.

“These, you mean these? Are, are these yours? How’d they end up here? That’s, this is weird, you know, I bet there’s a perfectly supernatural explanation for all this, if you just wanna head downstairs, I’ll be down in a second and we can figure out how this happened.”

“I have a theory.” Derek stepped forward, placing one knee, then the other, on the edge of the bed, which dipped and creaked beneath his weight.

“You do?” Stiles swallowed with a cartoonishly audible _gulp_.

“I think you stole those from my loft, and I think, while you sniff them, you imagine that it’s me fucking you.” Derek crouched on all fours, creeping closer, till he loomed over Stiles.

“That’s a very good theory.”

“So my question now is, why settle for an imitation when you could have the real thing?” Derek seized the base of the silicone cock and pressed it fully into Stiles’ body. The younger man let out a long, surprised moan which melted into a serious of pleasurably groans as Derek starting dragging the dildo in and out.

“G-good—question!” Stiles could barely speak between gasps, his mind perfectly fried, not only by the sensation of what was happened, but the sheer fact it was happening. Derek grinned, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth. Those teeth…the night Stiles had dreamt what they would feel like, nipping into his flesh. “B-b-bite me. Please, p-please bite me.”

“I never thought you’d ask.” Derek lunged and his mouth captured the pink circle of Stiles’ nipple. Stiles shrieked, then babbled incoherently as Derek’s teeth nibbled at his skin. The grating scratch of stubble against the tender flesh of his chest nearly drove Stiles mad. His fingers wound their way into Derek’s hair, where they knotted and pulled and held on for dear life.

“Oh fuck, Derek, Derek oh, fuck you’re gunna—“ Stiles became increasingly agitated, his body jerking and writhing as Derek continued to pump the dildo faster and faster. He nearly ripped out a clump of Derek’s hair, but the werewolf did not stop nipping and licking and biting between Stiles’ nipples. And then Stiles’ whole body was shaking and seizing he felt every muscle tense as if his nerves were on _fire_ and he screamed, full-on wake the neighbors screamed, as he came all across his stomach.

“—make you cum?” Derek chuckled as he lifted his mouth from Stiles’ red and raw nipple. The younger man slid free and seemed to collapse into a puddle on his bed. A muscle in his thigh continued to twitch. With surprising tenderness, Derek kissed his way down Stiles’ body, lapping at the still-warm puddles of cum. Then he engulfed Stiles’ pulsing cock into his mouth, sucking and running his tongue along the underside of his shaft.

“Oh, oh, oh oh oh, too sensitive, too sensitive!” Stiles pushed and beat at Derek’s head, till he relented and his cock popped free. “Not that that wasn’t amazing, but.” Stiles waved his hand in a vague, noncommittal gesture, which he hoped conveyed the message. Derek smirked, and with that werewolf strength that still, to this day, continued to amaze Stiles, flipped him over onto his stomach. “Wha—what are you doing?” And then Derek was sliding the dildo out of his ass.

A sudden, deep emptiness pervaded Stiles, like he’d awakened to an amputated limb. He could not prevent the pitiful moan that ghosted past his lips, more a petulant whine than anything else. But then Derek was rubbing two fingers against the puffy bud of his hole as he kissed and nipped at the back of his neck. All along the ravine of his spine, Derek trailed wet kisses, till his mouth sucked at the rising ridge of his ass. Stiles felt strong hands cupped and pull his cheeks apart as Derek buried his face in his ass.

“Oh, oh that’s, that’s g-good.” Stiles’ voice warbled and shook as shivers wracked his body. If Derek’s stubble had scratched before, now it burned. Stiles felt it over his entire body; he clenched a fistful of pillow in his hands to stop from digging his nails into his palm. All the while, Derek licked and kissed and sucked and teased at Stiles’ hole, which gaped and shuddered at the attention. Soon, the strength began to return to Stiles’ limbs, and his cock, which filled and bounced against the mattress. He began to push back, pressing his ass into Derek’s face, hungry, desperate for his touch.

“Someone’s insatiable.” Derek came up briefly for air, taking the occasion to bite one of the round mounds of Stiles’ ass. He yelped and swatted blindly, but without any real venom. Whatever comeback Stiles had, it was lost in the muffle of the pillow in which he’d buried his face. But not so deep as to not hear the clatter of a belt being undone and jeans being unzipped. He craned his neck around; Derek sat back on his haunches, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. How many times had Stiles seen him like this? On countless occasions he’d cleaned and dressed his wounds, and whenever they were at the loft, Derek had no qualms about changing in front of anyone gathered. But this…this was different. Stiles reached out a greedy hand to stroke the hard lines of Derek’s stomach. Derek hooked a thumb into the hem of his boxers and pushed them down off his hips to pool mid-thigh with his jeans.

If Stiles had been turned on before, it was nothing compared to what the sight of Derek’s cock did to him. Had he ever imagined it so perfect? He doubted. Derek caught him staring and smirked, that shit-eating, I’m-ex-alpha-werewolf grin than drove Stiles mad. He started to stroke himself, slowly, like a tease. Stiles tried to rise up onto his elbow, but Derek placed a hand on his back and pushed him down, holding him there. All he could do was crane his neck around to stare hungrily.

“Okay, I’m pretty sure this violates the Geneva Convention.”

“The international agreement between states on how to handle prisoners of war?”

“Okay, maybe not that, but something. This is cruel and unusual punishment.” Derek made a sound deep in his throat, somewhere between a chuckle and a _hmm_. Then the bed was shifting as Derek laid his body atop Stiles’. His breath came hot against his ear.

“Well, you did steal my underwear. But trust me, when I punish you, you’ll know.”

While Stiles’ mind reeled with the implications, Derek uncapped the lubes and lathered up his dick, which he then positioned against Stiles. He pressed in slowly to the accompaniment of practically every swear Stiles knew, but his earlier attention that sufficiently loosened him up.

“Fuck. Derek. _Fuck_.” If Stiles had felt empty before, this was what it felt like to be full to the brim. This was better than any fuck with a sex toy. This was alive and warm and _yes_ , Stiles could smell Derek, felt enveloped by his scent. He wanted his sheets, his bed, his whole room, to reek of him, to never be able to wash the scent out, for this moment never to end.

Then Derek starting moving, bucking his hips against Stiles’ ass, and Stiles never wanted _that_ to end. His body slotted so perfectly into his, filled him so completely. Stiles’ head lolled from side to side, his mouth agape, his speech gone completely incoherent. Derek’s hands gripped him, moved him, spread his thighs farther apart. Stiles had been reduced to putty in the werewolf’s competent hands.

Stiles sensed, more than noticed, the change in Derek’s rhythm, the frantic, wild quality of his movements, his thrusts growing faster. Stiles gripped the bedsheets, ripping them loose, as his moans grew louder and louder. He turned to stare back at Derek, at the taunt display of muscle, at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Derek bent down, never stopping, one hand seizing Stiles’ jaw. He smashed their mouths together. It was all teeth and tongue and lacked finesse, but Stiles didn’t care, how could he care about a simple thing like that when _Derek_ was kissing him? And then Derek moaned into his mouth, and Stiles swallowed those unintelligible sounds, gulped them down hungrily, as Derek bucked and came.

Derek slid out of him and collapsed on the bed. The entirety of Stiles’ body thrilled with a sexual current. His cock pressed painfully into the mattress. He stretched all his fingers and toes as he ground down, letting out a shudder.

“Careful or you’ll break it.” Derek looped an arm under Stiles, pulling him into his chest. Stiles’ cock smacked against Derek’s thigh, snug and trapped between their bodies. “Give me a second and I’ll take care of that.”

“It doesn’t look like you need a second.” Though Derek’s cock had gone half-soft, Stiles judged it could still get the job done. “My, my grandma, what a big cock you have.”

“Really? Derek snorted. “Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Um, your line is, _All the better to fuck you with, my dear_.”

“I thought I already did that.” Derek slapped an approving palm onto Stiles ass. “Twice.”

“Fair enough.” Stiles reached down to adjust himself. For a moment they held each other in silence as their heartbeats even out and slowed. Stiles nuzzled his face into Derek’s chest. He let his tongue flick out for an explorative taste—salt and the hint of something earthy. Derek’s eyes fluttered shut, and for a second Stiles thought he’d drifted off to sleep. Just as Stiles was about to do the same, a thought occurred to him. He propped himself up on an elbow and tapped Derek’s cheek till he opened his eyes with what Stiles hoped was an encouraging lift to his brow. “Again, not that I’m complaining, but…what the fuck were you doing at my house?”

“You left something at my place the other day, when you and Scott came over to discuss the ghoul problem.” Derek sat up and reached for his jeans. From the back pocket he pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Stiles. “It seemed important.”

“This assignment was due yesterday. I told Coach my dog ate it.”

“…you don’t have a dog.”

“Yeah, but Coach doesn’t know that. Thanks though.” Stiles dropped the paper on the floor. “But that doesn’t explain why you broke into my house.”

“I knew you were home and I know where you hide the spare. Besides, I don’t think underwear thieves get to take the moral high ground.”

“Fair point, but doesn’t a man’s privacy mean anything/? I mean, I could have been—”

“—jacking off while sniffing a stolen jockstrap?” Stiles’ mouth hung open as he did his best to come up with an excuse. “No surprise there. I could smell your arousal from a block away. You reeked.”

“And you came in anyway?” Derek rolled over, pining Stiles beneath him. Stiles could not help but notice Derek’s steadily engorging cock as it rubbed against his own.

“That’s _why_ I came in.” Derek bent down and kissed Stiles, gnawing on his bottom lip. The kiss left his mouth swollen and wet and aching for more. “Now, didn’t I promise to take care of something?”

Stiles Stilinski had planned everything. Or so he thought. And never in his life was he so glad to be so wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, oh so very much for reading. If you enjoyed it, or have constructive criticism, please feel free to leave a comment below.   
> You can find me on tumblr at: meohmywhyohwhy. I welcome Teen Wolf and Merlin prompts, as well as a friendly hello. Enjoy the aesthetic.


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